


Halfway to Empty

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, War, background Hughes/Gracia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: A little drink, a little cheer, and Roy Mustang catches a glimpse of a different life.
Relationships: Maes Hughes/Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Halfway to Empty

The line of cars arrived after nine o'clock, which was late enough that the COs could conceivably have gone to bed already and be prepared to plead ignorance in the morning. But of course, most were out among the tables, reading, smoking, or listening to the scratchy gramophone when the girls spilled from the cars and sashayed up into the leisure hall.

Roy was sitting at the back of the room locked in struggle with a stubborn cigarette case. He ignored the giggling, until he happened to glance up and a familiar curly red mane caught his eye. At the same moment, Hughes exclaimed, "Oh, Etty! Etty's back. That calls for a toast, doesn't it?"

"Of course," said Roy, abandoning his quest for tobacco at once. He was surprised to discover the brandy bottle was halfway to empty already. But then, Hughes had returned from his morning’s orders, which called for celebration; and in the course of celebrating, they kept discovering other worthwhile toasts to his success. 

Now Roy was finally growing merry. He had to concentrate to aim the stream of brandy. He sniffed his jacket sleeve as it came near his face, frowned, decided he was imagining things, and poured himself an extra large slug. 

Hughes watched Etty. "I swear she’s even prettier now. Think we could get her over here?”

“‘We?’ I thought you were done chasing skirts."

“I am! I only admire them now.”

“When’s the last time you admired anything farther away than the tip of your own nose?”

“I resent that.” Hughes drained his brandy and thrust the cup pointedly forward. “I can see perfectly well that my drink is now empty. How’s this: admiration is as different from chasing as...as a full cup is from an empty one.”

“Fair enough,” said Roy, obliging with the bottle. 

Hughes shook his head. “Where’s the hellish Mr. Mustang who was always first to pounce? Don’t you still have blood in your body?”

“Save your worrying about that for tomorrow.”

Hughes’ smile was small and vicious. “For _you_? I don’t think I will. I'll save it for my own men, and my own hide."

Roy laughed. "Now, that’s no way to treat a friend. Let me show you. Etty!" He hoisted the brandy, which was all the invitation needed. Etty swaggered over into their circle of lantern light. Its glow made her hair look even ruddier, though it also exposed the half-centimeter of dark brown showing at the roots. “Hello, boys,” she said.

"Where have you been?" asked Roy as he poured for her.

"Oh, busy with this and that. There's a whole city still running over there, you know."

"Wish I did," said Hughes morosely. "Haven't had leave in three months. I can barely remember what a real bed feels like."

"You’d go back to not missing it soon enough," said Etty. "Where shall I sit?"

“Here, in my lap,” suggested Roy.

“I will sit _beside_ you,” she said, settling on the bench. Her thigh pushed firmly against his. "And don't you dare try to steal any kisses this time!"

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Roy. He took her hand instead and put his other arm around her shoulder. Then he tugged her in swiftly and planted a kiss on her red-painted mouth.

"You’re terrible," she chastised him, but her smile was genuine as she pocketed the cens he'd pushed into her hand. “Why, if you have any more ideas like that, my temper will really start getting worked up.”

“No, I think that’s just as bold as I’m feeling tonight.”

"I'm shocked, truly.” She flashed a wicked smile at Hughes. “What about you, lieutenant? Are you any more fun than your friend here?”

A glint appeared in Hughes’ eyes. Before Roy could so much as warn Etty, Hughes had whipped an overstuffed envelope from his breast pocket. “Absolutely not! And this is why!”

Etty examined the top photograph. Roy wondered which one it was; probably the portrait in the garden, with Gracia in a big hat decorated with ribbons. “She’s gorgeous,” said Etty.

“She’s incandescent. No other woman can compare.”

“If you want me to tell you you’re pretty, just say the word,” Roy murmured to Etty, who swatted him and shrugged off his arm. 

"Say," she said, "where's that kid who always liked to talk to me? The one with an eyebrow all the way across his forehead, and the singing voice of a cricket."

"Schilling!" cried Hughes. "Don't tell me you liked it when he shrieked at you!"

"It was sweet!" Etty protested. "And he wasn't stingy, which is more than I can say for some of you."

She liked to dig at them, but Roy knew she enjoyed their platonic company well enough, payment notwithstanding. Otherwise she would never have come over to their table; she certainly wouldn’t have remained. Then he remembered her question. "Schilling didn't make it back the other day."

They fell quiet for a moment. There was only one thing for it: Roy tipped a little more brandy into his cup and held it aloft. “To Schilling, whose voice could have raised the dead.” Then, with a grin: “May he never be so roused himself."

All three drank. Hughes remembered a man he’d neglected to toast the week before, so they drank to him, too. After that they kept drinking for fun. 

There was something irresistible about a girl in lantern light; the thought of kissing Etty again was never very far from Roy’s mind as the night wore on. Yet he didn’t try again. He let her lean against him and roared with laughter as she told a grand story, a dope who’d come in with a rather peculiar prop he wanted her to use. 

Occasionally the horrible scent of charred meat he’d detected on his clothes rose in his nostrils again, but each time he simply drank until the brandy burned his nose instead.

Finally, after the brandy was gone, he realized it was the candle—some impurity in the wax or wick. He rattled the lantern with care, making it flicker, until the scent was clean again.

"What’s wrong with it?" Hughes asked. He was extremely cheerful, if a little confused. He tried to shake the lantern as Roy had, but missed and managed to knock it over instead, splashing hot wax on the table. Etty and Roy both leapt up—Etty out of the way with a curse, and Roy to steady the lantern. “All right,” he said, moving away from the hardening mess, "that’s enough. It's lights out for you. Sorry, Etty."

"I've got to be getting back anyway. It was fun, boys. See you again soon."

Roy clapped Hughes on the back. "On your feet, come on. There we are.” He balanced Hughes shakily upright and threw an arm around his broad shoulders. “Don’t make me carry you. I’ll drop your sorry behind and you’ll have to sleep outside.”

“I can walk, I can walk.” But they were more like a single four-legged creature as they shuffled to their quarters, with Roy playing the parts of both muscles and brainpower. Hughes sang a little under his breath, that old standard, “Elizabeth, I’ll Be Home Soon,” except he sang it “Gracia, I’ll Be Home Soon,” stretching out her name to fit the syllables, “ _Gra-a_ - _ci-a,_ don’t forget my face, I haven’t forgotten yours…”

When they reached the barracks, Hughes lunged for the mattress, and nearly made it. Roy hoisted him up by the back half and rolled him over. Hughes reached his arms over his head, stretching his long frame. "What a beauty. I hate to leave her so soon."

"You were hardly flirting."

Hughes curled his arms and legs to his chest like an infant. "Do you think she still likes me?" 

Roy wiggled Hughes' glasses from his face and folded them in his breast pocket beside the stuffed envelope. "Etty? Sure. She likes to laugh."

"Not at me, I hope."

"Not too much."

"The singing. I'm not sure that was a good idea. And she's so pretty, too."

There was no point in trying to follow a man who had drunk past the point of reason. Roy sat beside Hughes and lit a cigarette. Hughes made a whining sound like a car trying to power up a hill. "I can't stop thinking about her, Roy!" he groaned, and now Roy knew who he really meant. "At home doing all those ordinary things without me. It’s not fair. All I want to do is see my girlfriend. How come I’m stuck out here?” Roy shrugged, even though he knew Hughes couldn’t see him. “I mean,” Hughes went on, “none of those girls here, none of them could ever compare...dancing and flirting, just dancing and flirting….” His voice began to soften and melt from sleepiness and drink. “It's cruel, is what it is. To tease us like that."

"They don't just tease if you pay them."

"But there's nothing _real_ in it."

"That's what we pay them for."

"You’re right!” Hughes rolled over. “Aren't we absurd?"

His hair was flattened on top and fanned irregularly across his forehead. It was funny, his eyes looked greener without the glasses; he was always cleaning the damn things, so maybe a film of dust usually obscured the color. 

His hand wandered across the mattress, slipped off the edge, regained its standing, and, finally, found Roy’s knee. 

“Would you put me to bed?”

It was a simple enough request. Still, Roy was surprised. Hughes usually didn't ask. He talked about nearly everything else, but with this, he preferred silence and hands pulled and pressed with unmistakable intent.

He leaned down and kissed Hughes. It was a good thing they’d both been drinking the same stuff, or else the taste of brandy would have been overpowering. As it was, kissing Hughes was just as enjoyable as it had ever been. The room was very quiet all of a sudden, the distant hum of music and conversation and machinery receding until it faded completely, and all there was to hear was the soft noises of lips and uneven breathing. It would have felt lonely if they hadn’t been together. 

Roy reached into Hughes’s trousers and got to work. It took a long time. Hughes was interested, all right, and made that clear with shivers and mumbled words, but he needed a lot of enticing even after his prick got stiff. Blame the drink. He certainly wasn’t the first man to fight valiantly against alcoholic stupor. Roy had been in that battle once or twice himself, which was why he didn’t mind continuing his efforts. Besides, it was clear Hughes could really use a good night’s sleep. 

Eventually, he found release. Roy wiped his wet hand on the underside of the mattress while Hughes recovered his breath. The cigarette was still burning. Roy inhaled from it, then offered it to Hughes, who managed an unsteady drag before throwing his head back on the pillow with a cough. He was properly worn out now, but still fighting sleep. He felt around his midsection. “Hmm,” he said with befuddlement. “I thought I made a mess.”

“You haven’t. Get some rest.”

Hughes mumbled a few further protests before falling quiet. After only a minute he began to snore. Roy blew out the lanterns and finished his cigarette in the dark, with the cherry end floating before his eyes. But then he was even more awake, so he lit another.

It was late, but that didn't worry him. He always had trouble sleeping the night before big action. It didn't hurt his reflexes any. At first excitement and fear had kept him up, but now it was a strangely muted energy, one that burned incessantly yet made him feel almost nothing. A familiar feeling for one hard at work. He figured that whatever well he drew from was the same source that made alchemy so malleable, and made Etty able to smile and tease all night long.

He _had_ missed her, though he hadn't realized it until her absence ended. Etty, more than any of the girls, made him feel like ordinary life was within reach. Hughes was right: they were stuck at war, and meanwhile girls and everyone else were carrying on at home, in what might as well have been another world. But when Etty came into camp, it seemed like some crossover was possible, no matter how fleeting. It felt sweet to remember.

In the morning, Hughes had bags under his eyes and the stale odor of a sweaty hangover, but he was as lively as ever. He ruffled Roy's hair and just managed to avoid tipping coffee all over him. “Give them hell, all right?”

"Always do."

When Roy returned that evening—for he did return from that hell of flame and death—he found that Hughes and his men had been called away on new orders. On the bed, Hughes had left a short letter. Roy sat as he read it, smiling to himself: _Action calls! Back tomorrow. Don’t wait up for me, darling._

There was no imagining it this time: his clothes, even his skin, stank of ash and meat. He lay back on Hughes’ bed with his arms spread. Then, with a mischievous grin on his face, he rolled all over the bed, making sure to rub his hair on the pillow. Hughes _hated_ this, loudly and violently, which was why it entertained Roy to no end to anticipate him returning to the reek on the sheets. When he was satisfied with the prank, he went to the showers.

The bucket had been sitting all day, so it was a warm, brackish wash for him, very relaxing. Looking down at himself, he was certain the sun, drink, and rations had had an unseemly curdling effect on his body. He was mottled with tan and sunburn in various stages of healing, blotchy like he was ill. The skin on his stomach was puckered. He'd ripped a hole in one glove and lost another; his fingernails were caked with black dirt and he didn't know what else. The bucket was halfway to empty before he felt he'd started to get some of the grime off.

After that, he allowed his attention to turn to more pleasant matters. He was happy to find he still recalled the precise excitement that had tingled through him when Etty pressed her thigh against his. He wondered if the girls would come back tonight. His prick felt heavy, like a full water canteen. 

_Let me tell you how pretty you are,_ he imagined himself saying, and then leaning in for a real kiss—one that would last, and get the engine in his heart going. Girls’ lipstick got all over your mouth when you kissed them properly. Etty would swoon. He could feel his hand in her curly hair, her breasts pressing against his chest. Etty spread out under him on a bed that smelled of roses and perfume. Etty giggling as he nibbled on her collar bones. 

All fantasy, all as insubstantial as a phantom scent; and yet Roy examined these dreams on a daily basis. They even followed him out of Ishval.

A few years after the war, he had an experience that showed this unmistakably. Mr. and Mrs. Hughes had invited him for dinner. He was dumbstruck by how alien their home seemed: the table settings, the glowing candles, all like something out of a ladies’ catalog. They sipped blood-red wine as they talked in the kitchen and Roy tried to quell his uneasiness. Successfully distracted, Gracia burnt the roast, and as noxious smoke curled around them Hughes only laughed and kissed her cheek. 

Roy excused himself early and walked out on the street. The lamps lit a discontinuous path in front of him, circles of light like a stone skipping on water. He was turning the corner when he saw, just stepping out of a car, a fine head of curly red hair.

It turned out the crossover went both ways. Roy felt as though he had slipped out of his body and found himself back in the bizarre, feverish otherworld called the Ishval Civil War.

Etty had eventually revealed that the reason for her brief absence from camp was simply boredom: she’d tired of the drive, and hearing the boys’ macabre stories. But when the hankering took hold of her, she came back. “It can be rather exciting, you see, in small doses,” she told Roy, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. “Unless a war's on, we’re always stuck at home.”

This woman wasn’t Etty—she was too tall, her hair too dark, and besides, Etty almost certainly hadn’t become a society lady with jewels and furs—but still, Roy was rooted beneath the hot street light. Dizzily, he understood that wherever he walked, he still distantly believed, or feared, that he was only daydreaming. And he knew suddenly that Etty, wherever she was, had had the same experience. So had Hughes. Like rising abruptly from water, and taking a breath of a different life before sinking under again. 

Although things happened between them a few more times before they went home, he and Hughes never talked of those nights. Roy would sometimes wonder if he should ask how, precisely, Hughes was happy with his imperfect reconciliation of love and reality. How he could marry Gracia and never show her the same man outside the war that he had shown Roy inside of it.

But each time Roy would recall how even back then, thinking of lovely obscenities in the showers, he never intended to pursue Etty beyond those maddening daily strokes. For them to screw, they would have to take their clothes off. A person could never be more vulnerable; even death wasn't quite so frightening as the idea of that voluntary vivisection. She would know him, and Etty with her clothes on and Etty with her clothes off would make a complete picture of her. It was more than Roy could bear.

But not more than he wanted.

Perhaps that was why he could never hold Hughes’ decision against him. One could hardly fault a man for wanting to keep breathing. In the end, the only thing that made sense to Hughes was to leave those nights behind, in the war, where they belonged. Roy understood. After all, there were many such things in Ishval never spoken of again.


End file.
